


Sirius Black in Azkaban

by byebyebluejay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Sirius Black, Self-Harm, Sirius Black in Azkaban, Sirius loves crosswords, and even in Azkaban he makes quips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 20:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15980039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebyebluejay/pseuds/byebyebluejay
Summary: Twelve years is a long time to maintain sanity inside the walls of Britain's infamous wizarding prison. This is what Sirius did while managing it-- and how close he got to failing.





	Sirius Black in Azkaban

##### Day 1:

It was like stepping into an ice bath. The despair hit his chest and sank in, and Sirius staggered under the weight of it. James dead. Lily dead. Peter a traitor. Harry an orphan. Remus alone. True and hollow. Those thoughts filled his mind with a buzz that made his limbs leaden. His found family was fractured, and the loneliness chilled the marrow of his bones within a minute of the doors of Azkaban being sealed behind him. 

The effect of the Dementors wormed its way deeper. He was sixteen again, standing in the foyer of Grimmauld Place with his Hogwarts trunk packed and his wand drawn. Walburga, face blotched livid red and white, had her wand drawn on him too. Orion stood like a rod of iron behind her, and Regulus was curled up in an armchair, back stiff, eyes fixed on the fire. 

“You are a disgrace. I knew it even before you went to Hogwarts. I knew you were a self-absorbed, vain little rat who’d never serve any cause. Not even his family’s. The number of times I’ve told your father that I’m sorry I ever birthed you—you can’t imagine. Good the Potters are taking you. You can weigh them down with your presence instead. Never darken this doorstep again.” If she had screamed and raved it would have been better, but the coldness of her voice made it all sound so logical. And she’d looked at him like he was nothing. Worse than nothing: like he was a cockroach she found in her soup. Sirius had told James he’d answered he was sorry Walburga had been the one to birth him too, and blasted the crystal chandelier from the ceiling before disapparating, but that was an utter lie. He’d sat down on a stoop within sight of Grimmauld Place and cried, in full view of view of drivers and pedestrians, for two hours. 

It wasn’t even much of a stretch from where he found himself now. The stoop had been as cold and hard as the floor of his new cell. The only difference was that James and Mrs. and Mr. Potter weren’t waiting for him now. They were all dead. And his new home wasn’t the Potter’s country estate, but a couple square meters of bare rock and a mattress. He had no future. He had nothing. He was no one. Sirius collapsed onto the worn mattress and tried to cry, but his eyes only stung. He didn’t know how long it took him to go to sleep that first day. It felt like eons.

##### Day 15:

The shock of the Dementors had worn off. Having one pass by his cell or push a bowl of porridge in with its mottled gray hand still made him shudder. He kept remembering the hatred in his mother’s face, and visiting Mrs. and Mr. Potter on their deathbed, and getting the news that James and Lily had been murdered in vivid detail, but as the thoughts became broken in to the shape of his mind, Sirius had attention to devote to other, more physical things. 

There was a wash of damp sea air coming in through the window, all salt and seaweed, but under that was the human reek of misery. Unwashed bodies. The sour tang of wet skin and hair. Rust. Vomit. Horrible, but something to cling to. It was solid against the waves of memory. The floors were hard packed dirt with stone beneath. Sirius took to pacing his cell, trying to kick up as much dirt as possible. The activity attracted the interest of the Dementors, so Sirius found other ways to occupy his time, too. He listened to the cries of the other prisoners, trying to identify them by the timbre of their voices and the content of their nightmares. He tried to remember the sobbed sins and pleas of former Death Eaters, and milk as much satisfaction out of them as he could. 

But Sirius never screamed or pummeled his fists bloody against the iron bars. The thought had formed sharp in his mind even before he was brought to Azkaban, but it solidified and grew bright and hot in the two weeks that followed. He was innocent. He, unlike the other scum in here with him, was innocent. Dumbledore had to at least question his guilt. Remus had to question, too. Sooner or later he would have his day in court, and he didn’t want to look like a lunatic when that happened. Harry needed someone to look after him, after all. He had to make them believe him.

##### Day 22:

In the moments when the Dementors were furthest from him and his mind was clearest, Sirius designed crosswords in the sheet of loose dirt he’d kicked up over the better part of a month. 17 down: ‘______ out’; betrayed. 5 across: one who quests for booty. Eight letters. It was usually satisfying. Sometimes he would even make himself laugh. That, without fail, made the Dementors come running. He trained himself out of that pretty quickly. 

When they huddled around his cell, smelling hope or a shred of enjoyment, and the urge to scream with loss and regret clawed out of his bones, he retreated into Padfoot. Padfoot could be sad and lonely, but the dog’s brain didn’t naturally unravel more complicated variations on those, like guilt and self-loathing. He’d curl up on his bed, tuck his nose in against his side, and wait for the Dementors to move on.

##### Month 2:

“What’s the date? Don’t be a cock, Crouch. What’s the date? Is it before or after Christmas?” Sirius shouted out of his cell at the ashen-faced prisoner being led deeper into the prison by two Dementors. The boy didn’t even raise his head. “Useless,” Sirius said as he flopped back down on his mattress to stare up at the ceiling. He lost track of days, sometimes, even though he did his best to keep count. It had been more than a month since he’d been locked in here. Seven weeks, or close to it. What was taking Dumbledore and the rest of the Order so long to secure him a trial? He was innocent. They must have some doubt he’d be capable of betraying James and Lily, even if the rest of the wizarding world didn’t. He was innocent. He would never betray James and Lily.

##### Month 9:

33 across: the tines of a fork. Six letters. 33 down: Beatrix ______, British author of The Tale of Peter Rabbit. 42 across: exodus. Six letters.

##### Year 2:

His hair, even tangled as it was getting, had grown down to his shoulder blades, and Sirius had never seen himself this thin. Standing naked in the middle of his cell, he studied what he could of his body. He didn’t notice his own odor anymore. A couple dozen months without a proper bath had given his nose scent exhaustion. Even the general stench of Azkaban seemed less foul and more like a fact of life. It could be easily ignored when he had something else to focus on. 

His skin looked discolored somehow, like all the blood had been leached out from under it. Cold and gray as the Dementors’ hands. He could see the curved underside of his ribcage, and the stark lines of carpals and tarsals in his hands and feet. His arms and legs still had some muscle, though. That was something. Sirius ran a hand over the gritty stubble on his cheeks. He was still young. Still handsome. A shave, a shower, and a haircut, and he could pull off a sort of David Bowie-on-cocaine look. Drape himself over things and look beautifully alien and angular as he fed himself back up.

Experimentally, he dropped onto his hands and toes to try a few push-ups. He got to twelve before a Dementor drifted up to his cell, and the cold stole into his veins again. Sirius pushed himself up onto his knees, staring into the darkness under the creature’s hood, willing it to go away. It lingered. Not that it mattered much. With no reliable way to wash, sweating more than was necessary was stupid. And it wasn’t as though he had anyone to impress in here. Sirius considered shaking his cock at the hateful thing, but the joke seemed pointless. The Dementor didn’t even have eyes.

##### Year 3: 

“Bellatrix, are you in here?” Sirius shouted into the near-silence. Three winters had come and gone since he’d been shut in here. He’d gone just as long without a human conversation. Bellatrix had, without a doubt, been a Death Eater, and she wasn’t the sort to hide in the shadows, even if things weren’t going her way. Especially if things weren’t going her way. If anyone deserved to be locked in Azkaban, she did. But Sirius hadn’t heard her scream or cry, and he was sure he would recognize it if he heard it. More than that, though, he just wanted someone to talk to him. 

“I am,” Her voice sounded stone-cold and as sane as it ever had, “You’ve gained credit for works beyond your merit and your ability, Sirius. They say you are the Dark Lord’s most devoted. His closest confidant. But we who are loyal, who are truly trusted by him, know the extent of that lie.” Somehow, even though it was an even more vile strain of Death Eater shit than usual, Sirius sagged back against the wall of his cell, feeling for the first time in years like he wasn’t some strange breed of invisible spirit. 

“Couldn’t have told someone that before you got dragged in here?” 

“You belong in Azkaban, blood traitor. Muggle worshiper.”

“Try ‘muggle-fucker’ on for size. Rolls off the tongue easier.” 

“You make light of things you shouldn’t.”

“You know me. Family clown.” There was silence for a while, except for someone’s piteous crying echoing down the corridor. Sirius chewed the inside of his cheek, considering. Then after a minute he asked, “How long have you been in here?”

“Three years.” Sirius’s heart sank. Bellatrix was no good for news, then. Not that she would know how Harry or Remus were doing, anyway. If Harry was happy and safe. If Remus was taking care of himself. Stomach squeezing tight, Sirius swallowed, then dared another question.

“Before you got in here, did Dumbledore give any sort of statement about me?” Bellatrix laughed, but no answer came. “Did he? Tell me. Did he?” No words came from down the passageway.

##### Year 5: 

2 across: not culpable. Eight letters. 19 across: medieval pope known for escalating the crusades. Eleven letters. 7 down: a person caught in the crossfire of a war or crime. Eight letters.

##### Year 8:

His face felt different under his fingers. The pads of fat that had once filled out his cheeks and the hollows beneath his eyes had melted away. He could feel the precise ridges and grooves along the edges of his eye sockets beneath the scant protection of his skin. Not so beautiful anymore. How old was he? Twenty-nine? Thirty? How old would he be when he got out? Would he get out? If James and Lily were still alive, would they even recognize him? Would Remus? Would he? Pointless questions. He was probably never getting out. Everyone was content to let him rot here. Sirius spent a week as Padfoot. Food tasted better that way, anyway.

##### Year 9:

In the high warmth and occasional sun of midsummer, Sirius took to singing Happy Birthday once a day for Harry. It was impossible to tell which day was the 31st, and Harry probably didn’t need the extra birthday well-wish, but it somehow felt like an obligation to try and will a joyful day into existence for his distant godson. What a shite godfather he was, that this was all he could do. James and Lily never would have picked him if they had known. Chances were good that Harry didn’t even know his face or his name, and if he did, he’d blame Sirius for the death of his parents. And why shouldn’t he? It had been Sirius’s idea to change Secret Keepers. He would have to explain that he did it with the best intentions. That he would never betray James and Lily. But who was to say Harry would forgive him, even so?

Sirius bruised the knuckles on his left hand hitting the cell wall. The pain was sharp and blinding for a few seconds. He didn’t regret doing it.

##### Year 10: 

1 across: perdition. Four letters. 1 down: famous wizarding escapologist _____ Houdini. 5 down: the act of seeking sweet release. Seven letters. 8 across: bound to happen. Ten letters. 

The words didn’t fit together so easily anymore. Sirius gave up the project after writing just ten words of the mesh. He started occupying his time by writing in runes instead. ‘I am innocent.’ ‘I did not betray my friends.’ ‘I committed no crime.’ Different variations. Over and over again.

##### Winter becoming spring:

As it turns out, saying you’re innocent doesn’t make gruel taste better. Empty-bellied and thirsty, Sirius stared at the bowl and cup that had just been pushed into his cell, groaned, and rolled over. It wasn’t worth the effort to retrieve.

Padfoot ate and lapped up the water hours later.

##### June 1993:

A clumsy calculation of the year brought Sirius to the realization that it was the start of summer after Harry’s second year at Hogwarts. Harry was twelve and two years into his magical education. Maybe playing quidditch. Probably pulling pranks and getting into trouble. Having fun. And Sirius hadn’t even remembered. His life was slipping away between his fingers, and Harry’s was slipping out of his mind. He was barely worth being called a person anymore. He couldn’t help the tears that boiled up from long-dry ducts. He wept, really wept, for the first time in years. There was a sort of finality when they dried up. Like a well drained and empty. Like he would never cry again.

##### July 24th, 1993:

Sirius had given up on his runes, too. His fingers were calloused and his fingernails unspeakably filthy already, but somehow the thought of running them through the dirt seemed like more trouble than it was worth. He’d been falling in and out of sleep often, recently, keeping no hours, existing mostly in a blurred space between restless and waking nightmares. Even those had become worn through, though. Their horror dulled. Everything colorless and empty and hollow. His eyes were half closed as he rested with his back against the wall, legs stretched out on the cot before him, too tired to do anything but keep breathing, when the sound of even, unfamiliar voices roused his attention.

“—glad to have this visit behind me. I really am not fond of this place.” Sirius opened his eyes as he watched a man with an Auror at one elbow and a secretary at the other come into view in front of the cell. 

“I don’t think anyone is, Minister,” the Auror answered, pausing when the man did in front of Sirius’s cell. 

“Merlin’s beard!” The man clutched at the copy of The Daily Prophet he was holding, but his eyes were fixed on Sirius himself. Sirius straightened his back a little, “Is that Sirius Black?” 

“Sorry to hear you’re not enjoying your time in Azkaban, Minister,” Sirius said, voice like gravel in his throat, “Try staying a decade. No trial necessary. See if it grows on you.” The Minister blanched.

“No, no. I don’t think it will. Thank you. Well,” He was turning back to his escorts, but Sirius’s eyes latched on a span of empty boxes on the back of the issue of The Prophet, “We should be—”

“Sorry to bother you, Minister,” Sirius said, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet, feeling atrophied muscles protesting the change in position. The Minister of Magic, despite his wand, the bars between them, and the Auror at his side, flinched. Sirius ignored it, “Are you finished with that Prophet? I miss doing the crossword.” 

“I—well—” The man sputtered, fingers tightening on the paper once more before jerkily extending it, “Yes. Of course. Here.” The Auror took a guarded step closer as Sirius took another step closer and took the newspaper from the Minister’s hand.

“Thanks.”

“It’s really nothing. Now, please,” The man’s voice had the smallest quiver in it as he started to walk down the corridor, “Let’s get out of here.” 

Sirius retreated to his cot, taking brief note of the date of the issue before lazily flipping through a few pages. His gaze skimmed over an article titled ‘MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE’, admiring the image of a large and smiling family standing in front of the Pyramids of Giza. A small flicker of movement where it didn’t belong caught his eye. There was a rat on the youngest boy’s shoulder. Something shot through Sirius like electricity through water, and he jolted forward, staring intently at the familiar shape of the ears and the curl of the tail, and the front paw. Missing a toe. That boy was easily Hogwarts age. He was going to school with Harry. He was going to school with Harry, and he was going to bring Peter fucking Pettigrew within spitting distance of his godson. 

Sirius was innocent. But he was better than innocent. He was alive. And it was over his dead body that he was going to let Peter Pettigrew play a pet at Hogwarts and bide his time for a new moment in the sun. Will roared through him like a flame as he tossed the paper aside without so much as glancing at the crossword, heart beating like a bodhran in his chest. One good thing about spending twelve years in Azkaban: those bars didn’t look half so impassible as they used to.


End file.
